


Some Little Flash Of Love

by ems



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ems/pseuds/ems
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a dozen reasons why he shouldn't be here.  But there's one very good reason why he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Little Flash Of Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I am most definitely not part of the BBC or Shine. Although I am a member of the Order of Rupert Young's Drinking Buddies (Those Bitches). But sadly, even that doesn't mean that I get a Leon/Morgana plotline included in the show. BOO.  
>  **Author's Notes:** wanderhomeagain prompted _Leon/Morgana - that night in the club_ and expected 250 words. Instead she got this. I AM SORRY. Thanks, as ever, to my best girls shelikeswaves, who understands my sooooul, and hermette, who is my lovely wife, for the quick and dirty beta. And for everything else in between.

There's a dozen reasons why he shouldn't be here.

The music that's booming out into the thick blackness of the club isn't to his taste. There's far too many unsavoury types lurking in the shadows for him to be comfortable. The whiskey's cheap, and that, combined with the rapidly strobing lights, is sure to make his hangover a hundred times worse. And even though he's secreted himself at the most secluded table, he's already had to reject – some more firmly than others – the unwelcome advances of several clubgoers.

But there's one very good reason why he's here. And that's Lady Morgana.

From where he's sitting (folded uncomfortably into the tiny booth, his knees wedged underneath the table) he's got a good view of her. She's in the middle of the dancefloor (of _course_ she is; _always_ the centre of attention) and in the flashes of light he catches glimpses of her; the dark curls cascading freely over her exposed back; the pale skin of her arms flung above her head; her full, scarlet lips; the curves of her body hugged by tight black jeans. And to anyone else – to the women he's knocked back tonight, maybe – it must look like he's feasting his eyes on her, waiting for the right moment to make his move.

But he's not.

Well, perhaps the first part's true. Morgana is beautiful – has always been beautiful, but now, at 20, she's grown into her looks and is no longer the colt-limbed, clumsy girl he once knew, but a desirable – all too desirable – woman. But to make a move? To make a move would be suicide – as far as his career's concerned, at least. He's worked for Lord Pendragon since being wounded in combat and leaving the army at twenty, and for the last six years he's been by Lady Morgana's side; posted at classroom doors, hovering discreetly outside changing rooms as she giggled with school friends, sitting two rows behind in the cinema, pretending not to notice as she made out with her first boyfriend at fifteen.

And here, now. Waiting in a dank club while she– _slums it_ , Lord Pendragon would say.

Morgana would call it letting her hair down, and privately, Leon might agree.

She's made her way across the dancefloor now, pushing through the writhing mass of bodies to bound up the stairs. She flops into the chair opposite him with a gasp of laughter. "Phew," she says, her eyes scanning the empty glasses in front of her. Leon pushes the vodka tonic he bought for her across the table, and follows it with a tumbler of water. She laughs, and downs the vodka – and when he raises his eyebrows wordlessly, she rolls her eyes, but obediently takes a few sips of water.

"Having fun, my Lady?" he says, after a moment.

She drums her fingers on the table, her eyes flitting across the crowd before settling back on his face. "Hm? Oh, tons. Although," she says, leaning forward conspiratorially, "there are some decidedly unpleasant people on that dancefloor."

Leon stiffens, sits up. "Has anyone said anything to you? Who? Just point them out and I'll—"

Morgana's eyes widen and she holds up her hands. "Down, boy," she says, and then laughs. There's a silence as she fixes him with a curious gaze – _those eyes_ , Leon thinks helplessly; he feels as though he might drown in them. After a moment, she looks away. "No, nobody's said anything."

Leon sits back. "Good."

"I more meant what they're _wearing_ ," she continues, and a grin flits over her face. "Have you seen that girl in the bright red pleather?"

Leon rolls his eyes but he can't help smiling, and he leans across the table to her. "Perhaps she's under the impression that it's fancy dress, my Lady," he says out the corner of his mouth, "and she's come as a post box."

Morgana stifles a laugh behind her hand. "And that skirt's so short, she's revealing all the contents of her letters, if you know what I mean."

Leon glances down to the dancefloor before he can stop himself, and Morgana lets out a delighted shriek. "You looked!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together. "You pervert, Leon."

"Hush!" Leon says, but it's good-natured – he's used to Morgana's teasing, having suffered it for a decade.

"You can't possibly fancy her, Leon," Morgana shoots back, her eyes glinting. "I won't allow it. Not while she's wearing that abomination."

"Lady Morgana—" Leon says, warningly, though he's still smiling.

"Besides," Morgana says, her voice getting louder, "she can only be about seventeen, she's practically young enough to be—"

Leon's hand is over her mouth before she can say it. "I'm thirty years old, my Lady, and I can assure you that I did not commit any sort of impropriety at fourteen." He can see from her eyes that she's grinning, and he shakes his head. "You are, if I may say so, quite the disgrace."

She nips at his palm and he drops his hand, shaking it exaggeratedly. "You shouldn't talk to me like that," Morgana says, stealing his whiskey. "My father wouldn't like it." She splutters with a noise of disgust. "Ugh, this is vile."

Leon takes the glass from her lips and downs the rest of it himself. "Your father," he says, passing her his handkerchief, "knows you better than anyone, and would quite agree with me."

Morgana's silent for a moment, looking down at her hands, twisting the handkerchief between them. "Come and dance with me," she says, suddenly fixing him with a bright smile.

"I can't," Leon shakes his head. "It’s not my—"

"Your job, I know," Morgana says, and sighs. "You know, nobody ever said you couldn't have fun while you were doing your job."

"I have plenty of fun, my Lady," Leon replies. "But dancing with you wouldn't be—appropriate."

"You used to dance with me," Morgana says. "When I was younger. Before my prom, do you remember?"

Leon nods. "I remember. You were _terrible_. All knees and elbows." He grins as she smacks him on the arm, playfully. "But you were a child then. That's different. Besides, you're a minor royal, and the daughter of the richest man in Britain, and I'm—well." He shrugs, and then forces a smile. "Look, you can't be seen to be dancing with someone from _Lewisham_ , for God's sake."

Morgana tuts impatiently. "You know I don't care about all that. I'm not a snob. Besides," she adds, slowly, "you're not so much older than me."

She dabs at the corners of her mouth with his handkerchief, then tilts her head back and does the same at the hollows of her throat. She takes his hand between hers and presses the handkerchief into his palm.

"My father doesn't know me better than you, Leon. _You_ know me better than anyone. And I know _you_ better than anyone, too. You should remember that."

Before Leon can respond, she's gone.

* * *

It's been an hour, and Leon can feel himself nodding off. Not for the first time he wishes they still allowed smoking in clubs; he needs a nicotine hit to keep him alert, or at the very least, caffeine. He wonders how hard the barman would laugh if he were to order a black coffee. He stands, stretching out his legs, sore from being bent under the table, and wanders over to the edge of the balcony. With his elbows propped onto the brass rail he watches Morgana grind against some dull-looking suit; a city banker, no doubt, the sort of man Uther Pendragon wants for his daughter.

But maybe, Leon thinks, not the sort of man Morgana wants for herself.

He realises his knuckles have turned white where they're gripping the edge of the rail, and laughs self-consciously.

There's a brief shaft of light as the door from the lobby opens, and Leon turns to look. Illuminated just for a moment is a very familiar golden head – Arthur Pendragon, son of Lord Pendragon and the future heir of the Camelot estate. He's followed by his rather nervous-looking PA, Merlin, who somehow manages to come across as uncomfortable here as Leon feels. But Arthur's hand is at Merlin's elbow, and he's murmuring something into his ear that makes Merlin smile.

Leon flicks his eyes back to Morgana. She's moved; she's standing just below him, waving at him with her eyes wide. When he meets her gaze she cocks her head in the direction of Arthur and Merlin and purses her mouth into an exaggerated little "O" of shock. He bites back a smile and inclines his chin ever so slightly, indicating for her to come upstairs. She's at his side in moments.

"So… Arthur's here," she says, nudging him with her elbow.

"Arthur's here."

"With Merlin."

"With Merlin."

"Not that _that's_ a surprise. Those two go everywhere together," Morgana says, tapping her nails against the metal railing.

"Like us, my Lady," Leon says, then adds, hurriedly: "What I mean is, Merlin is Arthur's PA. It's natural he should accompany him."

Morgana raises one eyebrow quizzically. "To a club? What exactly is a PA supposed to do in a club? I mean, you're my bodyguard. And this is exactly the sort of place that I need my body… _guarded_ ," she finishes.

Leon bites back a smile. "In that case, I imagine Merlin is here to assist Arthur's… _person_ ," he says conspiratorially.

Morgana laughs. "Perhaps. They do seem very close "

They watch Arthur and Merlin for a while as they stand at the bar, Arthur's hand on the small of Merlin's back. The dark head dips towards the blonde one, looking for all the world as if the rest of the club didn't exist.

Suddenly, Arthur downs his drink and grabs Merlin's hand, starts dragging him towards the dancefloor. They can't hear them over the music, but it's obvious from Merlin's face that he's reluctant, his eyes darting around the room. But eventually Arthur says something that persuades him, and he relents with a grin and a fond look that gives Leon a flash of recognition.

"You Pendragons," Leon says. "Always insisting everyone dance with you."

"And dance you shall," Morgana says, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. "No, Leon, I won't take no for an answer this time. If Arthur can dance with Merlin, then I can dance with you."

"Lady Morgana, I really think—"

"Leon. My brother is the next Lord Pendragon and the heir to the Camelot estate. He's 15th in line to the throne, for God's sake. If he's dancing with his PA – his rather well-known _male_ PA, I might add – I hardly think any hidden tabloid hacks are going to give a damn about me dancing with my bodyguard. Besides," she adds, as she pulls him down the stairs, "don't flatter yourself into thinking you're well-known enough for anyone to recognize. For all they know, you could just be a handsome stranger."

Leon sighs in surrender, spans his hands around Morgana's waist and lifts her down the last steps onto the dancefloor. "A handsome stranger from _Lewisham_ ," he murmurs into her ear.

"Indeed," Morgana replies, cocking her eyebrow, "and do you come here often?"

He laughs at that, and pulls her into him if only to shut her up.

The music's loud and Leon can feel the bassline pumping through his blood, ricocheting around his chest, and he's grateful to it for once, grateful that it covers up the thumping of his heart. He shouldn't be doing this, he knows. It's not that he's dancing with Morgana; there's nothing illicit about that. No, what makes this wrong is that he's not _just_ dancing with her. It's that he's pressed up against her, his hands on her hips and the small of her back, her face pressed into his neck. It's that he can feel her breath against his skin. It's that he can smell the unfamiliar scent of her hair. And it's that all these things are making his pulse quicken and his skin prickle.

* * *

He can pinpoint the very moment he first wanted Morgana.

It was New Year's Eve. Uther had thrown a lavish party and Morgana had fought with him about attending; having just turned eighteen it was only natural that she'd wanted to go out with her friends but Uther had forbidden it, and Morgana had determined to be as ill-behaved as possible. Most of Leon's night had been spent following her around, trying to swap her drinks to soft ones, steering her away by the shoulders whenever she was coming close to mortally offending yet another important guest.

Just before the stroke of midnight she'd disappeared, and he'd spent the chimes dashing through the rooms of Camelot searching for her, eventually finding her curled up on the floor of the guest room balcony, weeping. She was young and drunk and hurting, and he'd done the only human thing to do; crouched onto the floor next to her, gathered her up in his arms and held her while she cried it out.

Afterwards, she was small and quiet, peaceful in a way he'd never seen her before, usually such a tempest. She'd smiled up at him, all huge eyes glittering in her pale, sharp face, and it had suddenly hit him; _oh_. _Oh_. He wanted Morgana, and maybe he always had, and perhaps he always would. He wanted her and he couldn't have her, but he couldn't bear to be away, either.

He thanks a God he doesn't believe in that she hadn't tried to kiss him that night, because he's still not sure whether he would have had the strength to say no.

He found it a year later, though, at her nineteenth birthday; he'd carried her up the stairs to the house after she'd drunkenly discarded her shoes at the end of the gravel drive; put her down in front of the big door, and when she'd looked up and said, "Oh, mistletoe!" and beamed up at him he'd just laughed; and when, after a moment, she'd stood up on her tiptoes and brought her lips to his in a sudden, mad rush, he'd turned his head so she met his cheek instead; and the next morning, if she was a little quiet, he'd made no mention of it.

But it had played on his mind for the longest time, and now, with her cheek pressed to his, with her hands wrapped around his neck, one buried in the back of his hair, it's playing on his mind again.

He sighs, takes his hand off her waist. "Morgana, I—"

"Leon, shut up," she says immediately. "Just look." She spins them round on the spot, elbowing other clubbers out of the way without regard. "Look at Arthur and Merlin."

Leon looks over. They're pressed close together, Merlin's back against Arthur's chest, his arms thrown back over his head and wrapped around Arthur's neck. One of Arthur's hands is on Merlin's hip while the other strokes over his chest, and he's pulling him closer, pulling Merlin's arse into his own hips. They're completely oblivious to everyone and everything else, he and Morgana included.

Leon coughs, uncomfortably aroused by such a blatant display of want. Morgana smirks up at him, takes his hand and places it back on her hip determinedly.

He brings his mouth to her ear and murmurs "So what you're saying, my Lady, is that anything Arthur does is okay for you to do, too?"

He feels her smile against his cheek. "Something like that," she replies, and then she turns on the spot, tilts her hips into his and brings both his hands around her waist.

"Jesus Christ," he lets out, unthinkingly. He looks down at his hands, impossibly large on her slim frame.

She leans back against his chest, lifts her head upwards. "Leon," she says impishly, "I do believe you're rather enjoying this." She grinds against him significantly, and he feels his cock stiffen at her touch.

And it's then that he realises; he's gone, now, gone and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He doesn't know what's going to happen, he doesn't know what hell will break in the morning; and right now, he doesn't much care.

* * *

He doesn't know how long they stay like that. Occasionally they drift over to the bar, laughing and gasping, ordering cheap spirits and downing them swiftly before dragging each other back to the dancefloor. _It's like being on a date_ , he thinks headily, a date with someone you've wanted for so long and now it's finally here, now you can touch them, that's all you want to do. _For hours_ , he thinks. He just wants to stay like this, just with his hands on her, his mouth pressed into her hair, her forehead, her throat – not her mouth, not yet – for hours, just wants to drink it in. And she seems the same way; never crossing that line, just finding new ways to touch him that he can't protest.

Once, she slides a hand under his shirt, and it almost snaps him out of the moment. "My Lady," he protests, but she nods her head in the direction of Arthur and Merlin and Leon sees that Merlin's hands are pushed under Arthur's t-shirt, the fabric bunched where his hands are mapping out paths over Arthur's skin. And in the strange rules of this game that they've made for themselves, that makes it okay; and not five minutes later, Leon takes his opportunity to run a finger around the exposed skin between the hem of Morgana's top and the waistband of her jeans, thrilling at the touch.

He's exhausted, intoxicated, dizzy with it, his eyes closed and his face pressed into Morgana's hair when he feels her squeeze his arm. He snaps open his eyes and follows her gaze; Arthur and Merlin are disappearing out of the club door, hands firmly intertwined, Arthur crushing up against Merlin in his haste to get out.

"Do you think they saw us?" he says, a note of panic in his voice.

"I doubt it," Morgana says. "They seemed pretty wrapped up in each other. Come on, we'll follow them."

And it all seems part of the game, so when Morgana slips her hand into his and leads him to the exit, he follows without a protest.

The cold night air hits them both like ice water, and Morgana starts shivering immediately. Leon slips off his jacket and wraps it round her shoulders. "We should get you home," he says, but he can hear the reluctance in his own voice.

Apparently Morgana can too, because she tuts and squeezes his hand. He presses his face into the back of her shoulder, plants a soft kiss against her neck, and the gentle hum of pleasure it elicits from her makes him ache to kiss her again. But then there's another noise; more of a moan this time, and Morgana whips her head around to look at him with an approving look of surprise. He shakes his head silently, presses a finger to her lips and points to the alley next to the club.

She giggles, and he's caught up in it, following her as she tiptoes to the corner, exaggerating his movements to make her laugh. When they reach the alley he clamps a hand over her mouth to hush her, feels her warm breath escaping between his fingers.

Together they peer around the corner.

At the end of the alley, hard to make out in the shadows, are Arthur and Merlin. Morgana lets out a gasp that Leon feels rather than hears, but he can't blame her. Merlin and Arthur's jeans are undone, their mouths crushed together, their hips moving as Arthur slowly grinds Merlin into the wall. Leon can't help but wonder what it would feel like to move against Morgana that way and it's almost too much; he tugs at her hand, pulls her away from the corner. She's breathless with laughter, her eyes sparkling, but he's not laughing any more. Not when her cheeks are stained red and her mouth full and a little damp from her hot breath hitting the cold air. Not when the top few buttons of her shirt are undone and her jeans sitting low on her hips.

He runs his eyes over her face, her throat, her shoulders and then comes back to meet her gaze. She smiles, slow and thoughtful. "You know, anything he can do—"

Leon swallows a groan. "Morgana—" he starts, and _shit_ , it's the first time he's called her that, he never calls her that. Her smile widens. "My Lady," he corrects himself, "you have to be sure—"

"Morgana," she says, and then leans in close to him to whisper in his ear. "I want you to call me Morgana when you fuck me."

This time, Leon can't keep himself quiet. It's like tonight—no, not just tonight, the last year, the last two years—have all been leading up to this moment, an elaborate dance of wanting that they've wasted so much time on. There's that voice in the back of his head that made him turn away when she was nineteen, and it's still telling him to stop, to think about the consequences. But when she's in front of him like this – when she's running her thumb over his mouth like she wants to kiss him until they can't breathe – when she's in front of him like this it's all too easy to ignore that voice. Instead, he kisses the pad of her thumb slowly, just touches it lightly with the tip of his tongue. "We need to get out of here," he murmurs, "before I pin you against that wall…"

* * *

Uther owns hotels all over the city and it's not unusual for Morgana to check in to one of the suites after a night out rather than trek back to the house. It only takes them five minutes to get to the nearest one after Leon flags down a cab, but they spend those five minutes with Morgana in Leon's lap while he kisses her slowly – her cheeks, her throat, her temples, her collarbones; everywhere but her mouth. When she tries to bring their lips together he shakes his head. "I'm saving that," he says, "until we have the time to do it properly." She laughs at that, but when he hushes her and says "Morgana, do you know how long I've waited to kiss you?" it turns into a shiver and she bites her lip.

"I suppose I can wait another five minutes, then," she says, and grins.

But she's impatient when they get to the hotel; checks in hurriedly and pulls Leon behind her into the lift, fumbles with her keycard at the door. And as soon as they're inside the room, she grabs Leon's shirt with two hands, pushes him against the wall and crushes her mouth to his, fiercely.

"Morgana—" he starts.

But she whips her head away only long enough to say "Leon, just shut up and kiss me, all right?" before she kisses him again, and then Leon doesn't have any breath for talking.

Kissing Morgana is as good as he imagined, when he allowed himself to imagine it at all. No, it's better; it's like drowning, only hot, hotter than flame, her mouth sending a thrill through him every time he possesses it again and again. She kisses the way she lives; fast and fierce and _hard_ , and he has to put his hands to her face to slow her down, to give them a minute to push off Morgana's jacket, make their way to the bed. They fall into the pillows, laughing between kisses, and then Leon pulls back, runs a finger over Morgana's jaw and mouth, over her throat.

"You're sure, Morgana?" he asks again, and then adds, "Don't tell me to be quiet. I have to make sure."

She looks into his eyes and arranges her face into a look of mock seriousness. "I'm sure."

"Even though I work for you and I'm ten years older than you and I'm from—"

"Lewisham," she finishes, rolling her eyes. "Yes, Leon, I'm sure, and I couldn't give a shit where you're from or how old you are. And as for working for me – didn't you ever see The Bodyguard?"

Leon laughs. "No, I didn't. Decided it would only put ideas in my head."

Morgana raises an eyebrow. "Apparently you didn't need them put into your head…" She runs a hand over his chest, down to his stomach and brushes lightly over the bulge in his jeans.

"Jesus Christ— _Morgana_ , I'm trying to be serious here—" Leon bites out.

"Sorry, sorry. Well. I'm sure. And it's probably a good thing you've never seen The Bodyguard," she adds, pushing her palm a little harder.

Leon lets out a strangled noise. "Uh—ah!—huh—and why's that?"

Morgana flashes him a grin. "I can't sing to save my life."

Leon decides the most effective way to shut her up is definitely to kiss her, and this time he takes charge. He starts softly, dropping kisses across her face, at the hollow at her throat, the dips of her collarbones. He sits her up and pulls her shirt off, kissing lightly over the tops of her breasts, her sternum, down to her navel.

When she unbuttons his shirt he shrugs it off his shoulders and then takes a minute to look at her; lips blossomed with their kisses, her eyes smudged and smoky, pupils blown. "Fuck," he says, marvelling at her. He's known her for nearly ten years and he's never seen her look anything other than immaculate, and yet here she is, underneath him and undone. Because of him.

The thought's too much for him, and he finally, finally gives in; buries his hands into her hair, behind her ears, leans down, and kisses her. Kisses her deeply, and as it goes on, wetter and more filthy, her soft moans meeting his own. Kisses her and kisses her until he's dizzy with it, until his head's buzzing and full of the scent of her hair, her skin. Kisses her until his mouth's sore from her teeth nipping at his bottom lip, and his back's stinging from where she's scratched her nails over his skin. Kisses her until she's lifting her hips to meet his hand, pressed between her legs to the fabric of her jeans; kisses her until she's moaning his name; moaning "Leon, _please_ ," in a voice he almost doesn't recognise.

Only then does he stop. Takes a deep breath. He shifts his body until he's knelt next to her, and she kneels up to meet him, unbutton his jeans as he unhooks her bra. They discard the last items of clothing until they're knelt together, bare skin on bare skin. He slides his hands over her back, her arse, her shoulders, amazed that he can touch her like this.

He touches every inch of her, his hand cupping her breasts and her stomach and her thighs, pushing up between them, his cock aching as he reaches her slick cunt. "So wet already," he murmurs, and she tsks softly into his ear.

"You can talk," she retorts, and at that she swipes her thumb over the head of his cock and he almost comes, he really does, and Jesus, that's never happened before. He has to draw in a deep breath and bury his head into her shoulder, still for a moment, to hold back.

She chuckles, low and filthy in his ear. "Serves you right," she says, and he's not having that. He pushes her back into the pillows and starts kissing his way down her body; pausing to mouth at her tits, spanning his hand over the pale cream skin; running his tongue into the hollows at her hips.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson, my Lady," he murmurs into her skin, sliding a hand up the inside of her thighs.

She props herself onto an elbow. "Is that right?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "I hate to say it, Leon, but you should probably know that this isn't exactly the first time someone's taught me this particular lesson."

He grins up at her, wolfish. "No," he says, "but it is the first time _I_ have."

She exhales a laugh, flops her head back onto the pillow, buries her hand in his hair and wraps his curls around her fingers. "Then you may begin," she says, and the commanding tone in her voice turns Leon on more than he would care to admit.

He mouths kisses over the inside of her thighs so long he knows it must madden her; he can feel it in the way her fingers tug at his hair, how the muscles of her stomach are tensing up. "Jesus, Leon—" she bites out.

"Always so impatient," he murmurs into her skin. "Okay, okay," he adds hurriedly as she digs her nails into his shoulder. He licks a flat, firm stripe over her cunt, flicks over her clit to hear the way she gasps. "Is that what you were waiting for?"

"Y-yes," Morgana shudders out, "that's what I was waiting for. Oh _God_ ," she moans as he circles his tongue harder, "that is fucking—Jesus Christ—"

It occurs to him how rarely he's heard her curse, and it sends a thrill through his spine known that it's him that's drawn it out of her.

He brings her to the edge twice, three times with his mouth, pushing his tongue and his fingers inside her, loving the noises she makes. But then she pulls at his hair just as he feels her getting close, brings him up to kiss her.

"Time to stop teasing you," she says, and the flush that stains her face and throat fills him with delight.

"Oh, believe me," he says, "I could do this all day."

"I'm sure you could, and believe _me_ , tomorrow I will happily let you," she replies, kissing across his jaw, "but if you don't fuck me soon, I'm going to have to kill you. Or fire you. One of the other."

He laughs, drops three kisses on her forehead, the end of her nose, her chin, and then looks at her. Just _looks_ at her. "Jesus, Morgana, you're so beautiful. Your skin is so—I'm not—" He huffs an impatient breath. "I'm not good at words, really, but God. _God_." He kisses her hard, hoping that will tell her what he can't find the right way to say.

She smiles against his mouth, and then she's got a hand on his chest and she's— she's pushed him onto his back before he knows what's happening. He lets out a yelp of surprise and she tips her head back and laughs. "And here you thought I needed a bodyguard all these years," she says swinging one leg over his thighs and settling herself over his hips. "I can handle myself, you know."

"So it seems," he says, and sits up to mouth at her shoulder and throat.

She reaches for her bag on the bedside table and pulls out a condom from her purse. The sight of it makes Leon still as it suddenly hits him what's happening – what's about to happen.

She settles herself back over his hips and catches sight of his face, raises an eyebrow. "Shocked?" she says, holding the foil packet between finger and thumb. "That I carry condoms?"

Leon shakes his head.

"I should hope not," Morgana says, ripping open the packet. She leans forward as she deftly rolls it on, her hair falling over his face and chest, a cloud of scent. "You should know by now," she murmurs, "that I'm quite the boy scout."

She tosses her hair back over her shoulders as she sits up and Jesus, _Jesus_ , she's here and she's magnificent. Magnificent. Leon exhales a drawn-out breath, spans his hands over her thighs.

"Be prepared," he says, and laughs shakily.

"Precisely," she replies, shifts her hips, lifts her body and then—

And then he's inside her, the heat and the tight, enveloping depth of her—

And she's over him, rolling her hips, controlling the pace—

And he's running his palms over her hips, her breasts, over her shoulders, down to her hands, entwining their fingers together, still marvelling that he's allowed to touch her—

And she's smiling, she's laughing, she's tipping her head back with the joy of it all, her white throat exposed for him to sit up and embrace, nip between his teeth, biting kisses into the hollows there—

And his hands are underneath her, pulling her closer into his body, pressing her into his chest—

And it's good, it's so good; he has to close his eyes as they start to move together faster, sliding his hand between their bodies and slicking his thumb over her clit—

And he can hear himself moaning her name, telling her how good she feels, how hot and wonderful—

And then she's coming, she's coming, tight pulses around him and he tries to ride her through it, tries to keep steady but she's looking at him, right at him, and saying his name and he can't look away—

And that's too much—

And he's undone—

And when he comes, it's white-hot, the biting pleasure of it, and he buries his face into her neck to keep from crying out.

When he opens his eyes again she's still looking at him, laughing, her head tilted to one side quizzically.

"What?" he asks, hoping his voice doesn't give him away.

"You do talk the most awful rubbish during sex," she says, grinning lopsidedly.

"I do not," he replies, smoothing his hands over her shoulders. "I'm the strong, silent type."

She snorts. "No, you're not. You're all, 'oh, you feel so good, oh, _Morgana_ …'"

"Well, that's not rubbish," he says, nipping her bottom lip.

"And _then_ ," she continues, fixing him with a steady gaze, "you said something about being in love with me."

Leon's silent for a moment. A thousand things run through his head at once, unbidden; the night on the balcony, the winter chill biting through his shirt; her lips on his cheek, under the mistletoe; watching her dance. "Well, I—"

"Oh God, _shh_ ," she says, "Don't." But her voice is soft, and she's pushing a stray curl off his forehead with a fond look that Leon recognises all too well.

"You forget, my Lady," Leon says, resting his forehead against hers and smiling, "I know you better than anyone."


End file.
